A Festival of Fic-lights: 221bs for Hanukkah
by tiltedsyllogism
Summary: An advent-style calendar for Hanukkah, originally posted in December 2015 at AO3. I will post one or two a day over here until it's complete. All of these are prompted; prompts in the chapter titles.
1. dinner by candlelight

It had been for an experiment after all, the second time. There were nine candles burning in the Hannukiah, and nine digital timers propped up in front, and several full boxes of candles piled to one side.

"Glad to see you're getting some more use out of that," John said mildly.

"Cold case," said Sherlock from the sofa. "But there's nothing else—"

At that moment Sherlock's phone had buzzed, and ten minutes later they were out the door to investigate a murder in Hampstead. They had come home to colorful stalagmites of cold wax on the table, and left them there until Mrs. Hudson cleaned it up the following week. She put the candles in a drawer and the Hannukiah on the bookshelf, and John couldn't do any better because he didn't know where Sherlock had been keeping it. And Sherlock of course did nothing at all.

The third time, four months later, was the rainstorm that knocked out the electric. They stared at each other's silhouettes for a full minute before Sherlock said "Hannukiah, John."

John's memory sparked at the smell of sulfur as he struck the match. "It's actually Hannukah tonight, I think. There was, uh, a sign up at Tesco."

"A good night for a candlelit dinner, then," said Sherlock. "Good job we've got plenty to burn."


	2. 2 prompts! Jewish Irene, the dreidl song

It might have worked for her in New Jersey, but in London it made you Specialty, and she didn't want that. The gap haunts her, especially in December; she always craves something homelike to counter all the holly and mistletoe. So she puts a red X in her appointment book just after sundown, and counts down.

She lights the Hannukiah and puts it in the window that faces the courtyard. She sings the old songs to herself, quietly. She even sings the dreidl song, thinking of Lila. Lila, who has been only three the last time Irene saw her, marching around the house chanting tunelessly while Irene and Leo had laughed themselves sick at the kitchen table.

 _Are you sure?_ he had asked, _It would make Mama so happy._ And she hadn't been, but said _You know how it is,_ and he had laughed and said _Some day you'll have to tell me what it's like, being a spy._ And she had smiled and said _Loose lips sink ships,_ because if she had spoken she might not have stopped, and then she would have stayed, her heart hungering for London ever after.

In the photo on the windowsill, Lila is nearly as tall as her mother. Irene looks out at the foggy cityscape and wonders what it would feel like to belong.


	3. a gift of Manichewitz from a client

John was a stoic sort, generally, but he sometimes found himself quite touched by the gifts that clients gave them. Not the elegantly-wrapped parcels delivered by courier direct from Fortnum's; John enjoyed the single malt and the fancy chocolates, but it felt more in the way of an extravagant tip.

But the smaller, humbler gifts – the ones that came from clients that Sherlock refused to charge – those made John feel like they were doing some good in the world, after all. John would never let Sherlock throw any of these away, and so the unbearable ones went into the cabinet by the door. Sherlock didn't mind this compromise too much, except on the days he did.

"Absolutely not," said Sherlock.

John gestured at the embroidered portrait of Queen Victoria on the table. "We'll just hang that on the wall, then?"

"We could _throw it…_ "

" _No._ " John marched to the cabinet and began unpacking it. "We'll find something we can use, is all."

A taxidermied quail (no), a hand-knitted liner for Sherlock's Belstaff (no), a quart-jar of pickled mushrooms (god no), a bottle of fruit syrup….

"Stop," said Sherlock.

John was surprised. "Got a cough?"

"That's wine." Sherlock grimaced. "Well, after a fashion."

"If you say so." John stood up. "I'll get glasses."

"All dirty," said Sherlock.

"Okay then," said John. "Beakers."


	4. pirate Sherlock hoards gelt doubloons

John was home, and his face said that he thought he was being clever. Sherlock decided to indulge him.

"D'you want to guess?" John asked.

"If you like," replied Sherlock magnanimously.

John sighed. "Fine." He pulled out the pouch of chocolate coins. "You win. But do you know why?"

Of course Sherlock knew why. Obviously. Because….

John grinned.

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped.

John peeled the foil off a coin. "Now," he said. "Hold still." Stepping forward, he popped the coin into Sherlock's mouth.

In an instant: chocolate sweet and smooth on his tongue. _Oh._ John always did surprise him somehow.

John smirked. " _Now_ do you see?"

Wordlessly – it wouldn't do to swallow, just yet – Sherlock grabbed John's hand and pulled him toward the bedroom.

"S'quite good chocolate, actually," Sherlock said, after.

John snorted. "Thanks for that."

Sherlock petted John's hair absently. "I had a whole stash at one point, but I never tasted them."

John sat up on one elbow. "Why not?"

Sherlock chuckled. "It was my pirate hoard—I'd won them playing dreidl at a party. But Mycroft found them and ate them all in one go."

John chuckled uneasily.

"They're good," Sherlock said. "I'm glad you got them."

"Good." John gave him a quick peck. "Just… do me a favor, Sherlock? When we're in bed, don't mention your brother."


	5. They infiltrate a dreidl gambling ring

"Ready?" Sherlock asked, from under the brim of his hat. He was in disguise as an Orthodox Jew.

John tucked his gun in his waistband and nodded. "Ready."

The two men strode through the delicatessen and passed through the kitchen to a dark stairway. At the bottom of the stairs was a dark room, filled with men dressed like Sherlock and eating jelly doughnuts.

"So you have found us, Mr. Holmes," said one.

"So much for my disguise," said Sherlock.

One of the men pulled out a chair. "Now you are here, you will play our game."

"Fine." Sherlock sat down. "What'll it be? Poker? Blackjack?"

The man locked eyes with Sherlock and reached into his pocket. He drew out a dreidl and set it on the table. "And now," he said "we spin."

Sherlock picked up the dreidl and, eyes aflame with

Mrs. Hudson tsk-ed. "Really, John," she said. "The way you describe him, does he know?"

John pressed his lips together and hoped he wasn't turning red. "Mrs. Hudson, I… just focus on the typos, please."

She sighed. "Yes, dear, but… it's all a bit fanciful, really. Like a Douglas Fairbanks film. I know you boys see some strange business, but is this…" her voice dropped to a near-whisper, " _embellished?"_

John smiled down at his hands. "Maybe a bit."


	6. Sherlock reads John a terrible love poem

It was a long trip to Stamford Hill – especially in Friday traffic – but Judith Rosenberg had insisted.

"You should know what you've given back to us," she said, still tearful, arms wrapped around her son.

Sherlock had seemed indifferent, but was aglow with interest now they were here. He hadn't seen many Shabbat dinners either, John supposed.

John put on his Church Face while Judith lit and blessed the candles, and smiled indulgently as the boys sang a prayer over the bread. Then Louis put his hands on the boys' shoulders and murmured a blessing, and John's throat thickened.

Dinner was cheerful and delicious, and John forgot the moment until they were home again, when Sherlock said:

"That prayer. Over the children."

"Yeah," John answered. Christ. He shuddered to think what might have happened without Sherlock, mournful Shabbat tables set for three.

"John." Sherlock said. "I want to– not pray. No point, obviously. But I'd like to—express to you. How grateful I am."

John blinked.

"If I may," Sherlock prompted.

"Sorry. Yeah, go on."

Sherlock recited, singsong:

"Thank you, John, for being my friend.  
I hope our friendship will never end.  
And though we occasionally experience strife,  
I'm glad to have you in my life."

He fell silent, awaiting judgment.

Heart full, John fumbled. "I… me too, Sherlock. We're blessed."


	7. Old country relative brings a mystery

"Then what?" asked John. "Did you catch him?"

But the smell of frying potatoes had distracted Uncle Piotr from his story. "Where are these latkes?" he boomed. "Twenty minutes I am waiting already." He stumped toward the kitchen.

John shook his head and turned to Mycroft. "I suppose the real mystery is how you and Sherlock wound up with a Russian uncle."

Mycroft sighed. John was pleasant company – his presence improved these family Christmases immeasurably – but astonishingly slow. "He's our mother's adoptive uncle. A friend of our grandparents."

"Ah." John sat back. "So mysteries run in the adoptive family, then."

Mycroft was spared a reply by the return of Piotr. "Soon, says Sherlock," he announced. "Now, where were we?"

"The missing candlesticks," John said.

"You were about to tell us," said Mycroft, "that they were never recovered, because you never thought to question the Rabbi's future daughter-in-law. She pawned them to complete her dowry."

Piotr stared at Mycroft, then laughed loudly. "Clever boy! Maybe you are not such a waste."

"Latkes are ready!" cried Violet, as Sherlock emerged from the kitchen with a platter. John jumped up to help serve.

"No, thank you," Mycroft said. "I'll wait for cake."

"Why not both?" John asked, smiling. "It's not every day you solve a seventy-year-old mystery."

Mycroft relented. "Perhaps I'll have a bite."


	8. a light in the window

She could have moved, once she made inspector – higher rent closer in, sure, but less money on the commute, and that wasn't nothing, these days. But Sally likes Leyton, enough to stay even after Gran passed and Janie and Floyd moved to Birmingham. Breaking even isn't just about the money.

It's fifteen minutes from the bus stop to her building, but home starts the minute she gets off the bus. The walk takes her past the Indian grocery, the Turkish place she likes and the one she doesn't, the Bosnian market that's moved in where her favorite chippy used to be, and the Lebanese takeaway she's been meaning to try. She used to know everyone's name, all the owners and shopkeepers. If she ever gets her weekends back – switches to desk or something – she'll learn them all again, so she can do more than wave as she passes by.

There isn't any neighborhood association that Sally knows of, but everyone seems to agree that winter calls for lights. The borough strings up fairy lights on the lampposts, come mid-December. But long before that there are scatterings of light spidering up shop fronts, and trailing from awnings. She sees lanterns and candles shining in shop windows, beckoning her in. She keeps walking – she has to – but drinks in the glow, all around.

Greg hasn't managed a tree of his own since the divorce. Not that it bothers him personally, but he does feel like a shit dad. He sees the girls little enough as it is, it's not like he wants to tell them "nothing fun here, run back to your mum's."

He's tried to keep Deborah well out of it – it's been delicate ever since Rosie shouted at her that she'd never be their mum – but he isn't good at hiding things from Deborah the way he was with Carol. (Not enough practice, maybe?)

"Out with it," she says, after dinner. "You've been fretting all evening."

"You're not going to like it," he answers.

"I like it better than you not telling me what's on your mind."

She listens. "You haven't got room for a proper tree," she tells him.

"I know! And a sad little bush seems worse, somehow."

She purses her lips, thinking. "What if we did something else entirely?"

"We?" he asks, cautiously.

"This isn't our stop," Rosie says.

"We're going somewhere different tonight," Greg tells her.  
"Where?" asks Lulu.

"We're lighting Hanukkah candles. With Deborah," he adds, mumbling.

"I know about Hanukkah!" Rosie crows. "We learned in school."

Lulu, always quieter, squeezes his hand. "Can I light one of the candles, Dad?"

He smiles at her. "You bet."

The advent candelabra had been Tom's – his grandmother's, really. Molly had loved it the moment she saw it, a delicate wreath of wrought silver. They had been saving it for when they were properly married… or Molly had, anyhow. Tom hadn't been much interested. She's glad he's gone, mostly, but she does miss it, their little Christmas ritual that never actually happened.

Silly to think she could have solved it. Christmas happens every year, whether you want it to or not.

She can't face the annual party at Bart's, even though she thought she was looking forward to it, so she slips out of the building and walks until she's too cold not to notice it, and ducks underground. It's the Victoria line, so she goes to Walthamstow, where she can keep walking. Part of her unclenches as soon as she steps into the leisurely eddy of foot traffic – the market is full of lights and good smells and people she isn't responsible for.

She stops at a table covered with metal trinkets and sees it: a silver menorah, shaped like olive branches. It's not her holiday, but that's all right – neither is Christmas, really.

"I'll take it," she tells the vendor. She thinks of it in her flat, a line of lights in the window, and no longer feels cold.


End file.
